The Betrayal

It was their song.

Loser by Beck.

Long before he mustered up the courage to ask her out on a date, long before she even acknowledged his existence in class, he had always thought of the song in conjunction with her. On their second date, he had told her about the song. She laughed her exalted, child-like laugh, leaned over the table and kissed him. Their first kiss. His first ever kiss. She said that she found it almost painfully endearing and that she always had a thing for the wounded, loner types. That was nearly six years ago.

The song had stayed with them through their long, often tempestuous relationship. They listened to it together countless times, and despite her differing taste in music (she was partial to Rachmaninoff and Satie) she always seemed to light up when the song came on. They made love while it was playing in the back ground, it was always on their car stereo and even friends had come to associate the song with them. In short, the song embodied their love, their relationship.

Now, amid the maddening cacophony in their living room (they had a few friends over), Karma Police has just made way for Loser. He stops rolling his cigarette and looks at her direction, expectantly. She’s engaged in an animated conversation about the etymological origins of the word Soma in Huxley’s masterpiece with her friend. He wants her to look up, he wants them to lock eyes and consummate their love in just one glance. As they always have done when they had company. She, however, seems completely oblivious to the song and to his imploring eyes. Incensed, he turns the volume up. Where the man failed, the machine wins.

Startled, she turns around and asks, “What is this song?”.

A feeble, waning “What are you saying?” was all he could manage to say.